


Épinglé

by LiveOakWithMoss



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Blow Jobs, Cousin Incest, Deepthroating, Ideation of injury or death, Knifeplay, M/M, Maedhros's danger boner
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-08
Updated: 2016-11-08
Packaged: 2018-08-29 01:33:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8470483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveOakWithMoss/pseuds/LiveOakWithMoss
Summary: Maedhros craved the edge of Fingon's blade long before Thangorodrim.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheLionInMyBed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLionInMyBed/gifts).



> Happy birthday to thelioninmybed! You are a terrible person, a monstrous influence, and I rue the day we met. I love you, you're a genius, never leave me.
> 
> You asked for loving knifeplay (see item one, terrible person, and item two, monstrous influence). I have attempted it (item four, my love for you).

**Part 1, Valinor**

 

 _Thunk_.

The knife-tip pierced the wood of the stable door and stuck there, Maitimo’s disapproving face reflected in its shining silver blade.

Maitimo stared at it a second, tucked a strand of hair self-consciously behind his ear, and then turned to the knife’s originator. “I really don’t understand this particular pastime. Exactly what eventuality are you preparing for that involves hurling blades at – ”

_Fwunk._

Maitimo flinched and tried to disguise it as an irritated twitch. “Seriously, must you?” He dropped back against the wood paneling of the barn door - well to the side of the two knives already stuck there - and folded his arms, tucking them tightly against his chest. “I see no purpose to this whatsoever. It would be a ridiculous way to hunt and requires far too much weaponry on your person to be at all functional, and if you are guarding against personal attack, then – ”

“I hate to interrupt your favorite pastime of listing the ways in which I am doing something wrong, but alas, I must.” Findekáno pulled a third knife from his belt and smiled at Maitimo in a way that indicated he hated nothing of the sort. “My dear cousin, surely you must see that this practice develops my hand-eye coordination, strengthens my grip, improves my dexterity and aim, and allows me to look devilishly talented in front of those I wish to impress.”

Maitimo had to admit, as Findekáno sent the third knife into the door with impeccable aim, that it was working. He also had to swallow a gasp as the wood reverberated beneath him with the force of the knife’s landing.

Findekáno grinned. “Goodness, you are jumpy.” He put on a wounded voice. “You must fear that I am a lardfingers who will impale you by accident at any moment. I am hurt! Don’t you trust my skill?”

“I trust your skill,” muttered Maitimo. “I just also trust the edge on those knives.”

“I would never hurt you,” said Findekáno, laying a hand to his heart. “I could never pierce your alabaster skin or mar your fair countenance, never cause a scratch on your well-formed…form, so dear is it too me, and it wounds me that you think – ”

“Enough,” interrupted Maitimo, ignoring Findekáno’s absurd monologue in favor of considering other things. “You speak a bold game, son of Nolofinwë, and I would have you prove it.”

“Pardon?”

It was so rare that Maitimo got Findekáno to look genuinely surprised that he took a moment to savor it. Then he unfolded his arms and spread them wide, pressing his shoulders to the wood. “Throw.”

Findekáno stared at him. “Do you wish me to make you a scarecrow on the side of Uncle Arafinwë’s barn?”

“No,” said Maitimo, letting a challenging note into his voice, and watching how Findekáno’s eyes darkened and his ears pricked at the change. “No, I have said that I trust you – Now I wish you to prove how much _you_ trust your aim. Continue your target practice, cousin: as close to me, but no closer, as you can.”

Findekáno gaped. “Are you mad?”

“You tell me,” said Maitimo, and smiled even as his heart raced.

Findekáno Astaldo, first son of the second son of Finwë, did not back down from dares, challenges, or anything Maitimo had ever asked of him.

And if Maitimo was mad, then Findekáno would be madder, just to prove he could be.

The first knife he threw landed a foot from Maitimo’s forearm. Maitimo cocked an eyebrow sardonically, as if the blood wasn’t roaring in his ears with anticipation and fear. “That is as close as you can get? I thought you more proficient.”

“Hush,” said Findekáno, who was breathing quickly. “And do not wriggle.”

The next knife landed a finger from Maitimo’s ear, and both he and Findekáno let out sharp breaths. The breeze had sent Maitimo’s hair drifting across the wood, and a single lock of red floated to the ground, neatly severed by the knife. Findekáno looked agonized.

Under normal circumstances, Maitimo would have protested the damage done to his finest feature, but now he hardly registered it. He licked his lips and stared Findekáno down.

“Another,” he said commandingly, as if he were giving orders on the training field and not splayed like a butterfly on a pin board. "Do not tell me you would quit so fast."

The third landed to the left of his hip. Maitimo felt an insane urge to lean towards it until he could feel its pressure through his clothes. But instead he focused on the intensity of Findekáno’s gaze, the extension of his arm, the bunch and stretch of muscle, and the shape of his fingers around the knife. Maitimo wished he had the skill or magic to capture that image, that instant, and resolved to hold it in his mind for later, when he had his charcoal and sketchbook.

The fourth and fifth knives landed proximal to places that should have had Maitimo calling off the game, but instead left him trembling in excitement, the sweat beading on his brow. The _focus_ in Findekáno’s face, the intensity, the combination of danger and total faith –

 - The threat of the razor edge, so close as to be sensation itself –

 - The imagining of pierced flesh, the promise of blood, the way the insides of his thighs trembled –

Findekáno ran out of knives long before Maitimo was ready to be done.

When Findekáno finally approached him, Maitimo was as wordless as if the knives had taken away his tongue. He held very still as Findekáno touched his cheek lightly, checking him for wounds or distress.

"Maitimo?"

When still Maitimo didn’t move, Findekáno released him, still standing nearly chest to chest, and laid one hand flat to the wood beside his head so he could yank out the knives. When Findekáno’s breath warmed his throat, Maitimo felt pierced, as surely as if he had been struck by flying steel.

He moved at last, and it was to grab Findekáno's face between his hands and pull him against his lips, and Findekáno made a gasping sound, like he too had been struck through.

The knives dropped to the ground, their silver dulled by the dirt of the stable yard, but neither of them noticed.

 

* * *

 

**Part 2, Hithlum**

 

“Do it.” Maedhros closed his eyes and breathed deeply.

Fingon palmed the next knife and waited. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” said Maedhros quietly, his eyes still closed, his hands twitching only slightly in their restraints. “I trust your arm, I trust your aim.”

“Do you trust me?”

Maedhros didn’t answer.

Fingon threw.

The knife struck just to the left of Maedhros’s ribs, clipping the edge of his linen shirt. Maedhros didn’t move, but his breathing grew shallow and fast and his skin shivered all over, as if from a second heartbeat.

Fingon hung back, his eyes on Maedhros’s face.

“Yes,” whispered Maedhros. “Again.”

Fingon’s face was tight and his expression unreadable, but his fingers never trembled and his aim never wavered. Maedhros dropped his head back, baring his throat, and let the mad laughter bubble out of him.

_Thunk_

"Yes."

_Thunk_

"More."

_Thunk_

_"Fingon."_

"Maedhros."

In time, Fingon’s knives were spent and Maedhros only opened his eyes when he heard Fingon ask permission to approach. He nodded, and Fingon knelt before him, his breath hot against the tent of Maedhros’s breeches, inches from where the long, silver blade stuck quivering in the wall.

“You always miss,” rasped Maedhros. “I wish you wouldn’t.”

“Call it habit,” said Fingon, pressing his face to Maedhros’s inner thigh. Maedhros could feel the wet heat of his mouth through the fabric, and he spread his legs until they pressed against the knives that hemmed them in.

Fingon, who knew the dance and knew what was asked of him, wrapped his palm around a knife handle and pulled it free. Maedhros groaned as the blade tip ripped through his breeches and he thrust forward heedlessly, eager to feel hot flesh against the cold steel. Fingon let him linger only a second before his mouth was replacing the blade.

Maedhros yanked free the other knife beside his ribs and held it tightly in his left hand. He ran it like a caress behind Fingon’s ear, then along the shifting underside of Fingon’s jaw. Maedhros used the blade to tip up his chin, making growling noises of pleasure as he saw Fingon’s eyes fixed on him – blue and bright, so bright – and knew he need never doubt his cousin’s aim.

“Sword swallower,” he murmured, and felt Fingon’s throat contract around a laugh. “Open,” he instructed, pulling back, and Fingon’s lips parted. Maedhros had bemoaned his lack of girth in his youth, but not now, as he let the flat of the knife press down Fingon’s tongue and repositioned himself, feeling the steel against the underside of his shaft. Once he would have asked if Fingon could take both, but now he knew better.

Fingon’s eyes shone and his throat flexed, and his own knife pressed up between Maedhros’s legs.

Maedhros groaned, the cold tip tickling bare flesh exposed by his torn breeches, and felt an answering rumble from Fingon. He wished Fingon would let him bleed, but Fingon’s control was iron, and his jaw stamina impressive.

Maedhros pulled out right after he finished, and watched Fingon spit onto the floor. He shivered again, debasement tracing fingers up his spine, and let the knife hang loose at his side. Fingon pressed a kiss to the gold fist at the other, and then got to his feet, wiping his mouth.

“Which is it that arouses you more,” he said, as Maedhros allowed him to crowd close and tuck his head beneath his chin. “The threat, or the promise?”

“The hope,” said Maedhros, burying his nose in Fingon's hair, “that one day my trust will be misplaced.” He felt Fingon flinch, and wrapped his arms around him. "But until then, tell me what I can do to return the favor." He breathed in, breathed out. "Beloved." 

**Author's Note:**

> (The ending was originally slightly bleaker. But I felt, in the balance of things, that we deserve a gentler note.)


End file.
